A Deal with the Devil
by heisey
Summary: After their final fight in Wilson Fisk's penthouse, Daredevil and Fisk made a deal. It has held up for two years. Will it still hold when Vanessa Fisk is kidnapped? To keep Karen and Foggy safe and rescue Vanessa, Daredevil has to make deals with some unlikely partners. About two years post-Daredevil season 3.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1_

_Vanessa_

Vanessa Marianna Fisk was a careful woman. She had to be. In the two years since the arrest of her husband, Wilson Fisk, on their wedding night, she had worked tirelessly to rebuild his empire while staying under the radar of both law enforcement and the criminal element. Most of their assets, including their penthouse at the Presidential Hotel and the hotel itself, were lost to forfeiture. But she still had assets in her own name, sequestered offshore where even District Attorney Blake Tower's forensic accountants couldn't find them. When her attorney, Ben Donovan, convinced the courts that they were her own property and not the proceeds of her husband's criminal enterprise, they became the seed money that would enable her to establish legitimate businesses and amass a new fortune, free from the taint of criminality.

That day was still in the future. Vanessa drew the line at human trafficking and prostitution, but the drug and gun trades were too lucrative to give up. She needed the cash flow they provided. But she was determined that, one day, the Fisk name would be associated only with her art gallery and real estate investments. To that end, she was a partner in several real estate ventures in Hell's Kitchen, carrying out her husband's plan for "a better tomorrow." But unlike him, she was not interested in creating an urban landscape filled with interchangeable towers of steel and glass. The artist in her found them boring. Instead, she sought out older buildings that were architecturally interesting and structurally sound, renovating and restoring them instead of tearing them down.

Her other goal was to secure her husband's release from prison. That might prove more difficult, considering the overwhelming evidence against him. But she had confidence in Ben Donovan, who had come out unscathed when her husband was arrested and convicted of multiple felonies. She didn't know how he accomplished it, but Big Ben had somehow kept both his freedom and his license to practice law. Wilson always said Ben was "a slippery son of a bitch," and she believed it. If anyone could free Wilson, it was him. But it would take time. That wasn't a problem, as far as she was concerned. She was willing to wait. She enjoyed wielding the power that came with her position as her husband's successor. She wasn't ready to share it. Not yet.

For the time being, she would present herself to the world as the woman she was before she met and married Wilson Fisk: an art lover and gallery owner. She used part of her seed money to buy out the owners of Scene Contempo gallery, then proceeded to put her own stamp on it. The gallery soon became known for discovering previously unknown or underappreciated artists and showcasing their work. To many in the art world, she was a pariah because of her marriage to Fisk, but they came to her openings nevertheless.

Being her husband's successor also meant she had enemies. They were his enemies, too: the Albanians and all the other criminal organizations that were brought down when he informed on them to get his deal with the FBI; the crime bosses he had taxed, in exchange for protection from federal investigations and prosecutions; and the former NYPD officers and FBI agents whose careers and lives he had ruined. Then there were his former allies. The Russians were no longer a threat; her husband had seen to that. Leland Owlsley was dead, but his son had moved to New York and joined his Wall Street firm. Sooner or later, he would seek his revenge for his father's death. Nobu was dead, and Madame Gao had not been seen or heard from since the collapse of Midland Circle more than two years before, but some remnants of the Hand might still be out there.

At least she didn't have to worry about Daredevil. She had Wilson to thank for that. His deal with the vigilante, trading her freedom for the safety of Daredevil's two friends, Foggy Nelson and Karen Page, had held up for two years. There was no reason to think Daredevil wouldn't continue to honor it. Both sides were locked in by love: Wilson's love for her, and Daredevil's love for his friends. She had been shocked when Wilson told her Daredevil was the Hell's Kitchen attorney Matthew Murdock. She found it difficult to reconcile the charming blind lawyer she'd met at her gallery with the violent vigilante who had beaten her husband, but Wilson assured her they were the same man. She supposed he must have some kind of superpowers, to do what he did as Daredevil. Or maybe he wasn't really blind. Maybe she'd ask him, if their paths ever crossed again.

Even with Daredevil neutralized, the remaining threats were serious enough that her security was a constant concern or, more accurately, a constant headache. The gallery had state-of-the-art security, both for her and for the artworks, and she never went anywhere without a security detail accompanying her. Her security team refused to let her move back into the apartment she had occupied before her marriage. Instead, the floors above the gallery were converted into a safe house, with the same state-of-the-art security as the gallery. The security team thought it was an ideal set-up; she didn't even have to leave the building. Vanessa disagreed, chafing under the restrictions they imposed. She never went so far as to try to lose her security detail, but she wasn't going to be their prisoner, either.

Tonight, she was going to a special exhibition of paintings and other artworks that were stolen by the Nazis during World War II and had now been restored to their rightful owners. "Rabbit in a Snowstorm" was one of them. After the State of New York seized Fisk's assets, they returned the painting to the heirs of Esther Falb, its rightful owner who had been murdered by Ben Poindexter. It was the third night of the exhibition. Vanessa was invited to the opening but declined, not wanting to encounter the heirs. She considered herself blameless in Mrs. Falb's death, but she doubted the heirs would see it that way.

Surrounded by her security men, Vanessa entered the Tribeca gallery where the exhibition was being held. She greeted the gallery owner, then went straight to the room where "Rabbit in a Snowstorm" was displayed. That was another advantage of skipping the opening; she could spend more time with the painting. Since she had seen it last, it had been expertly cleaned and restored. There was no trace of her husband's blood. Her heart beat a little faster when she gazed on it for the first time in two years. She lost track of time as she immersed herself in the painting, appreciating the artistry of its subtle gradations of shades of white. After a while – she didn't know how long – she reluctantly turned away. She could always come back, she thought.

Then the lights went out. There was a rumble of voices from the next room, confused at first, then raised in anger. Glass shattered. A woman screamed. The emergency lights went on. In their dim light, she saw two men, dressed in black with masks and some kind of goggles covering their faces. They stormed into the room where she was. One of them shot out the emergency lights. In the darkness, her security detail formed a circle around her and pushed her to the floor. Not a second too soon. The intruders opened fire, the flashes from their guns' muzzles briefly illuminating the room and leaving ghostly after-images on her retinas. Her protectors returned fire blindly but were hit and fell, one after another, until all of them were down. One of the attackers barked orders in a foreign language, not one of the ones she spoke. Another man grabbed her arm and began dragging her toward the rear of the building. She tried to twist out of his grasp and kicked him in the knee. He howled but didn't loosen his grip. With her free hand, she tried to find his eyes, thinking she could gouge one of them with a fingernail, but she couldn't push the mask and goggles out of the way. Something cold and wet was slapped over her nose and mouth. She tried and failed to knock it aside. Her knees buckled. Then – nothing.

# # # # #

_Matt_

Matt woke up when his phone vibrated and whispered, "Brett, Brett, Brett." He scrambled to silence it and slip out of bed, not wanting to wake Karen. She stirred but didn't wake up. He crept silently out of the bedroom before he spoke.

"Hey, Brett."

Detective Sergeant Brett Mahoney didn't waste time getting to the point. "Vanessa Fisk was kidnapped a few hours ago," he said.

"Damn," Matt swore under his breath. "What happened?"

"She was at an exhibition at an art gallery in Tribeca. The kidnappers attacked it and snatched her."

"Any idea who did it?" Matt asked, trying to ignore the dread that was rising in his gut.

"No," Brett replied, "but some of the witnesses told my counterpart at the 8th Precinct that the perps were speaking Russian."

"Russian?" Matt asked in disbelief. "That doesn't make any sense. Fisk took out the Russians, years ago."

"I know," Brett agreed, "but that's what the witnesses said. We're looking into it."

"OK. Thanks for the heads-up."

"I thought you needed to know. Certain people might think it was you."

"Yeah. No shit." Matt ended the call. "God damn it," he muttered, resisting the temptation to throw his phone across the room. He couldn't afford to lose his shit, not now. He had work to do. But first, he had to make sure Karen, Foggy, and Marci were safe. He turned his attention to the bedroom. Karen was still sleeping. Good. She probably wouldn't be getting much sleep in the coming days. He sighed and picked up the phone to call Foggy.

An hour later, Matt, Karen, Foggy, and Marci walked into the space that used to be Fogwell's Gym. Along the way, they had picked up three burner phones. It took some doing, but Matt finally convinced the others to leave their phones behind, arguing the devices could be used to track them. At the downstairs entrance to the gym, Foggy had pointed out a "Sold" sign on the building. It wouldn't be there much longer. According to the sign, it would soon be replaced by a twenty-story mixed-use tower, with shops and offices on the lower floors and condos above them.

Once inside the gym, Matt's heart sank when he noticed how the place had changed. The ring where his father had trained and fought was still there, but the battered lockers, the heavy bags, the speed bags, all were gone. Only a table, a few folding chairs, and the bench along one side of the ring were left. Foggy was right; the building's days were numbered. He bottled up his memories and handed out the burner phones, saying, "We need to use these until this is over. Put in each other's numbers, plus the number of my burner." He gave his burner phone to Karen, who added the numbers of the other phones and returned it to him. He pocketed the phone, then headed for the door.

"Wait!" Foggy called after him. Matt stopped and turned to face him. "Where're you going?" Foggy asked.

"To see Fisk," Matt replied matter-of-factly.

"Are you out of your mind?" Foggy demanded. "Fisk probably thinks you kidnapped Vanessa. You go to see him, you're gonna get yourself killed."

"That's exactly why I have to go see him. He needs to know it wasn't me . . . and that I'm gonna get her back."

"That's a really, really bad idea," Foggy declared. "If you tell Fisk you're gonna find her, you damn well better find her."

"I know," Matt said grimly.

"Do you even know where she is?"

"Not yet," Matt admitted. "I'm working on it."

"Damn it, Matt, what are you doing?" Foggy demanded.

"What I have to. You think the cops are gonna find her?"

"Probably not," Foggy conceded. "But that doesn't mean you have to."

Matt shook his head. "I have to do this, Fog. It's the only way to be sure you, Karen, and Marci are safe." He turned away and strode out the door, ending the conversation.

# # # # #

It was late afternoon by the time Matt arranged the meeting with Fisk and made his way to the prison where the deposed crime boss was serving his sentence. Ben Donovan was reluctant at first to allow the meeting, but Matt finally persuaded him that, in this situation, his and Fisk's interests were aligned.

Matt's heart rate ticked up when he and Donovan entered the prison. He remembered his last meeting with Fisk in such a place. He didn't think this meeting would end the same way; after all, he was there to help Vanessa, not threaten her. But he didn't know how Fisk would react to his presence. He took a deep breath and followed Donovan into the building and along the corridors to the interview room.

Donovan led Matt into the room, then stepped back when Matt released his grasp on his arm. Fisk was already there, seated at the table. He addressed Donovan first. "Leave us," he ordered.

"But, Mr. Fisk," Donovan protested, "I don't think it's wise – "

Fisk raised his voice to interrupt his attorney. "I said, leave us."

Donovan complied. When the door closed behind him, Matt crossed to the table and sat down opposite Fisk. "Mr. Fisk," he said.

"Mr. Murdock."

"You know why I'm here?"

Fisk nodded. "Vanessa."

"I had nothing to do with it," Matt said.

"I didn't think so," Fisk declared. "Even you aren't so foolish as to endanger your friends for no good reason."

Matt drew in his breath sharply, biting back an angry response. This wasn't the time. "Our deal has kept them safe for two years," he said, keeping his voice even. "I have no desire to change that. You want Vanessa back, and safe. I intend to make sure she is."

Chains jingled as Fisk leaned back in his chair, as far as his restraints would allow. He chuckled. "Ahhh, the hubris of a . . . daredevil. I'd almost forgotten it. It will be the end of you, you know."

"Probably," Matt conceded. "But not today, I hope."

"We can hope so," Fisk agreed. He steepled his hands in front of his face for a moment, thinking. He raised his head and said, "And now you need my help. Tell me what you need."

"My contact in the NYPD – " Matt began.

"Detective Mahoney," Fisk interrupted.

Matt ignored the interruption, careful not to react to the name. "My contact in the NYPD," he repeated, "tells me the witnesses to the attack said the kidnappers were speaking Russian. But you took out the Ranskahov brothers and their operation. Were there any survivors?"

"None that I know of."

Matt nodded knowingly. Fisk was nothing if not thorough. "So maybe the Russians – if they were Russians – aren't the ones with a beef. Maybe they're just the hired muscle."

"Possible."

"Has Vanessa gotten sideways with anyone . . . anyone who would do this?"

Fisk sat silently for a few minutes, stroking his chin. Then he said, "We agreed Vanessa would keep a low profile as long as I'm . . . unavailable. She's done nothing, _nothing,_ to bring about anything like this." He shook his head. "No," he said, "it has to be someone using her to get to me." Suddenly, his heart rate and adrenaline surged. _"They took Vanessa!" _he roared. He started to get to his feet, but his restraints stopped him. Matt pushed his chair back reflexively and prepared to defend himself, expecting Fisk to break the chains and attack, as he'd done before. Then Fisk seemed to remember that the man sitting across from him was not the enemy – not today, anyway. He took a deep, shuddering breath and fell back into his chair. He took several more deep breaths, then asked, "Has there been a demand?"

"Not that I know of."

"There will be," Fisk stated confidently. "When there is, it may give us an idea of who's behind this. It has to be one of my enemies. You need to look at them."

"You've pissed off a lot of people," Matt pointed out.

"Unavoidably so," Fisk asserted.

"Whatever." Matt waved a hand. "Any ideas on how to shorten the list of suspects?"

Fisk thought for a moment. "Well, some of my former allies in the NYPD and FBI are still incarcerated. I don't see them orchestrating this. And some of them are here. They could get to me if they really wanted to. They wouldn't need to use Vanessa to get to me. Beyond that – " He shrugged.

Matt sighed. "There has to be a way to find her. I'll figure it out. But you have to promise me that Karen and Foggy will be safe."

"I will continue to honor our agreement," Fisk assured him. "But you need to know that you have Vanessa to thank for your friends' safety, the past two years. There are people in our organization who would like nothing better than to take them out. You, too. Vanessa is the one who has held them in check. With her out of the picture, even temporarily, they may seize this opportunity to act. I may not be able to control them, not from in here. And they will be looking for her, too. You need to watch your back."

"Always."

"One other thing – " Fisk began.

"What's that?"

"If anything happens to Vanessa, our agreement is at an end. Understood?"

"Understood."

Matt stood up and held out his hand, leaning across the table so Fisk could reach it. "Then we have a deal."

Fisk grasped his hand. "We do." Matt inclined his head slightly in Fisk's direction and listened. The other man's heartbeat was steady. Fisk was telling the truth, or as close to the truth as was possible for him.

"I'll be in touch through Donovan when I know something." Matt let go of Fisk's hand and headed for the door. Before he reached it, Fisk spoke again.

"Murdock."

Matt stopped and turned to face him.

"Find her. Please."

"I will."

# # # # #

_Karen_

Karen was the first to notice Matt's return. "Matt!" she exclaimed, leaving her place at the table and going to meet him halfway. She kissed him, then asked, "How'd it go with Fisk?"

Matt shrugged. "Not too bad."

"At least you're not bleeding," Foggy observed.

Karen ignored him. "What d'you mean, 'not too bad'?"

"My deal with Fisk is still intact. He knows I had nothing to do with the kidnapping."

"So we can go home now," Foggy said.

"Um, not exactly," Matt cautioned him. "Some of Fisk's people still want to go after you two. Vanessa's the one who's been holding them back. With her out of the picture . . . ."

Karen completed his sentence. ". . . we need to stay hidden." She frowned. "Damn."

"But are we safe here?" Marci asked. "It looks like people are working on the building, getting ready to tear it down. Someone could show up, anytime."

"Marci's right," Foggy said. "But where do we go?"

"Jeri Hogarth has a place in the Hamptons," Marci suggested. "I"m sure she'd let us use it."

"And my uncle has a summer cabin in the Catskills," Foggy said.

Karen shook her head. "No," she said flatly. "They're both connected to you. It would be easy for whoever's looking for us to make that connection. Besides, they're too far away. Do what you want, but I'm not leaving the city. "

"So where?" Foggy asked.

"I don't know," Karen admitted. "But we need to be here to help find Vanessa."

"This isn't – " Matt began, but Karen didn't let him finish.

"Shut up, Matt," she ordered. "You're not doing this alone. We have a deal, remember? We work together." Matt frowned but said nothing. "We know who Fisk's enemies are and where they operate. We can track them. Maybe that will lead us to Vanessa."

"OK," Matt replied grudgingly. "But stay safe." He turned and went into the locker room. When he emerged, he was wearing the black Daredevil suit Melvin Potter had made for him.

"Where are you going?" Foggy asked.

"The roof."

Karen watched him go, then opened her laptop to begin her searches. Several minutes later, she stopped what she was doing. There was no way she was going to let Matt do this alone. She knew what she had to do. She picked up her burner phone and went into the locker room. Foggy and Marci didn't need to hear this call.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

_Matt_

Late that night, Matt was standing at the corner of the roof above Fogwell's. He tensed when he heard a man climbing the fire escape and emerging onto the roof. Then the man's heartbeat and the accompanying aromas of leather, GSR, and gun oil told him who it was. He relaxed, if only a little, and stayed where he was as the other man approached. He didn't speak until the other man was standing next to him. "Frank," he said.

"Red." The two men stood side by side in silence for a few minutes, then Matt spoke up. "I thought you left the city," he said.

"I did. I came back."

"How'd you know where to find me?" Matt asked.

"Karen told me."

"Karen?"

"Yeah," Frank confirmed. "She knows how to contact me when she needs to. Seems like this was one of those times."

Matt's mind raced. Karen and Frank, what the hell? He'd guessed there was something between them, during and after Castle's trial, but he thought that was long past. They'd been in contact? And she hadn't told him? Fuck. "So, you and Karen – " he began.

Frank cut him off. "No, dumbass. I told her, y'know, I said, her and me, it was never gonna work. She should stick with you."

"Fuck you, Castle." As he spoke, Matt stepped toward Frank and landed an uppercut on the left side of the other man's jaw. Frank retreated, but only a step, before his fist connected with the right side of Matt's face. The two men stood toe to toe, trading punches, but they were so evenly matched in size and skill that neither of them could gain the upper hand. As they pounded on each other, Matt felt the rage leach out of him. And he sensed Frank's heart wasn't really in the fight. He could have done more damage if he wanted to. Matt finally took a step back, dropped his hands and leaned over, panting, with his hands on his knees. Frank did the same.

When he caught his breath, Frank turned and looked up at Matt. "What the fuck was that about, Murdock? Last I heard, you're the one she's sleeping with."

Matt stood up straight. Then he froze. "What did you call me?"

"Your name, asshole."

"You know . . . who I am?"

"Obviously."

"Karen told you?"

"No," Frank declared. "I knew who you were the minute you walked into my hospital room and opened your fucking mouth."

"How'd you know?"

"Trained observer. You can thank good ol' Uncle Sam for that. Where he sent me, you didn't pay attention, you were dead."

"Karen knows you know?" Matt asked.

Frank nodded. "Yeah."

Damn, Matt thought, something else Karen didn't tell him. This was not good.

Frank straightened up and walked over to the roof's low parapet wall. He looked out for a moment, then turned around and leaned against the wall. "Karen swears you really are blind," he said, "so how do you do it?"

Matt sighed and took off his mask, then wiped the blood off his face with his shirt sleeve. He made his way to the wall and leaned against it, next to Frank. He did _not_ want to have this conversation. Might as well get it over with. "My other senses," he said curtly.

"So, what, they compensate for not being able to see?"

"That's a myth," Matt snapped, "something sighted people tell themselves. It makes them feel better or something."

"Then . . . how?" Frank asked.

"In the accident, when I lost my sight, there was a chemical spill. The chemicals blinded me, but they also amped up my other senses. I learned how to use them to, uh, do what I do."

"That's how you knew it was me, earlier?"

"Yeah. I heard your heartbeat and picked up the GSR on your hands. Among other things."

Frank thought for a moment. "That's how you heard me back then, with the Irish, what I said before I pulled the trigger."

Matt nodded. "Yeah."

"That's some weird shit, man."

"Tell me about it."

"I guess I was right," Frank observed. "You really are the devil."

The two men contemplated this in silence for a moment. Then Matt asked, "What're you doing here, Frank?"

"Karen said Fisk's woman got herself kidnapped, and you gotta find her, or Fisk goes after Karen and Nelson. She thought you could use my help."

"I don't want your kind of help," Matt declared. "We need to get Vanessa out _alive_."

"You think I don't know that?" Frank demanded, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ, you never change, do you?"

"No."

"Self-righteous prick," Frank muttered under his breath.

"C'mon, Frank, get real," Matt said disgustedly as he turned and walked away. "You bust in there and do your thing, there's no chance Vanessa gets out alive."

"'There?' You know where she is?"

"Uh, no," Matt admitted. "Not yet."

"Well, I might be able to help with that."

Matt turned to face him. "Oh, yeah? How?"

"Karen said the kidnappers were speaking Russian, right?"

"Yeah, but Fisk took out the Russians, years ago."

"Jesus, Red, you gotta get out more. Fisk took out the Russians in Hell's Kitchen, but there's lots of other Russians. Those guys are all related, one way or another. Maybe some of 'em are connected to the Hell's Kitchen Russians. They could still have a score to settle with Fisk."

"You sure about that?" Matt asked skeptically.

"Maybe," Frank replied. "I've been keeping tabs on the Russian mob, out in Brooklyn, Brighton Beach mostly. Lately, I've been hearing about some new guys, just arrived from Mother Russia. I'm thinkin' we need to take a look at them."

"It's been four years. Why now?"

Frank shrugged. "Don't know. If it's the new guys, maybe they couldn't get here until now. And you know the saying, 'Revenge is a dish best served cold'."

Matt frowned. "You know where to find them?"

Frank nodded. "Yeah, I got a few ideas. But first we need to make sure Karen and the others are safe. I don't like the set-up here."

"Neither do I," Matt agreed. "But where?"

"I got someone for that," Frank told him. He pulled out his phone and walked to the far end of the roof to make a call.

Matt listened in but could only hear Frank's end of the conversation. He seemed to be arguing with someone named "David." Eventually, Frank said, "You'll do it, then?" to which he seemed to get a satisfactory answer. A few more minutes passed, while they apparently worked out the details, before Frank said, "Thanks, man," and ended the call. He then made a second, shorter call, but didn't say anything, apparently having failed to reach whoever he was calling. He snapped the phone shut and walked back toward Matt, who met him in the middle of the roof.

"It's set?" Matt asked.

"Yeah."

"You can trust this guy, whatshisname, 'David'?" Matt asked.

"You heard?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, I heard."

"You're damn right, I trust him," Frank said. "He's the best hacker I've ever seen. And he hid from the fucking United States government for a whole year, while every goddamn spook in the country was looking for him. That good enough for you?"

"If you say so," Matt replied with a wave of his hand.

"You have a way of contacting Karen?" Frank asked. "I don't want them freaking out tomorrow morning when David shows up, but when I called her, it went straight to voice mail."

"Yeah," Matt replied. He pulled out his burner phone and handed it to Frank. "We all got burner phones. Her number's in here. Tell her what she needs to know."

He didn't bother to move away while Frank spoke to Karen. This was a conversation he wanted to listen in on. As it turned out, it was innocuous, probably because Frank knew he could hear it. Frank got straight down to business, telling Karen about this David who would show up in the morning and take them all to a safe house. He also gave her some code phrases to use to make sure she was dealing with the real David. Then he handed the phone to Matt. "She wants to talk to you," he said, before walking away to sit on the parapet wall.

Matt took the phone, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. He didn't know what to make of this whole thing with Karen and Frank. But this was not the time to confront Karen about it. He took a deep breath and said, "Hey, Karen. You OK?"

"Hey yourself. Yeah, I'm fine."

"So . . . you contacted Castle?"

"I did," Karen replied firmly. "I don't want you going after the kidnappers alone."

"But – Castle? Really?" Matt protested. "I mean, when we find Vanessa, he can't just do what he does and take out everyone. He'll get her killed. If he does that, we're fucked, all of us."

"He doesn't do that."

"Yeah?" Matt asked sarcastically. "Coulda fooled me."

"You don't know him like I do," Karen told him.

"Apparently not," Matt grumbled under his breath.

Karen ignored him. "Remember last year, when he got caught up in a . . . a situation? He thought he'd killed two innocent bystanders. It turned out he hadn't killed them, someone else did. It was a set-up. But he beat himself up about it. It kind of reminded me of you, actually."

"He's nothing like me, and you know it," Matt protested.

"You'd be surprised," Karen countered. "Look, I know he's a killer, but I think he'll agree to do things your way, this time. Just talk to him, you know, make a deal. You shouldn't do this alone. Do this for me. Please."

"OK," Matt said grudgingly. "Love you."

"Love you more," Karen replied and ended the call.

As Matt closed the phone and slipped it into his pocket, Frank got to his feet and went to stand next to him. "Time to go hunting," Frank told him.

# # # # #

_Frank_

Frank descended the fire escape, followed by Red. When he reached the ground, Red picked up a hooded jacket and baseball cap from behind a dumpster and put them on, concealing his suit. He stuffed his mask in one pocket; his dark glasses and cane were already in another. The two men started off on a circuitous route to Frank's car, which was parked only about three blocks away. As they walked, Frank checked for tails periodically but didn't spot any. After they had walked in circles for about fifteen minutes, Red announced, "We're clear." Frank gave him a surprised look, then nodded. They took a direct route to the car, arriving less than a minute later.

"We're here. You wanna drive, too?" Frank said, tossing the car keys to Red.

"No, thanks," Red replied, tossing the keys back to him.

"You don't want to? Or you can't?"

Red shrugged. "Never tried." He walked around to the passenger side of the car and got in. After Frank got in, he asked, "Where are we going?"

"My place," Frank replied, in a tone of voice he hoped would prevent any further questions. It did.

As he pulled away from the curb, Frank sneaked a quick glance at the man sitting next to him. Without a mask or dark glasses hiding his eyes, he thought Red somehow looked more vulnerable. He wondered idly if Red could tell when someone was looking at him. Then it struck him that he needed to know the answer to that question, and others. He knew Red could handle himself in a fight; he'd seen that for himself. But the guy had to have limitations. He couldn't see, for chrissake. If he and Red were going to do this thing together, they had to have each other's backs. And that meant he needed to know what Red could and couldn't do.

Frank still remembered the shock he'd felt, lying half-dead in a hospital room, when a blind lawyer named Matthew Murdock walked into the room and started to speak. He knew right away that the guy was the vigilante he called "Red." It was obvious. How did others not see it? Even Karen hadn't figured it out on her own. If anyone could've seen it, he would have bet it would be her. But she didn't. Red had to tell her. Still, Frank had seen Red's blind act, and he had to admit it was convincing. He supposed it wasn't that hard for Red to pull off the act, seeing as how he really was blind.

The bigger question in Frank's mind was "why?" Why did Red do what he did? He didn't need to go out every night and beat up people – and get beat up himself. He could've had a cushy job as a lawyer and an easy life. But he chose a different path. Frank supposed it had something to do with his religion. He gave a mental shrug. No way he was gonna ask Red about that; he'd heard too much on the subject already.

# # # # #

_Matt_

They drove for about half an hour, Matt guessed. Neither man spoke. On the way to wherever they were going, Matt asked himself what the hell he was doing. He'd kept up his end of the deal with Fisk and looked the other way for two years while Vanessa and her people were running guns and drugs. Now he was teaming up with the Punisher to save her? Yep, that's exactly what he was doing. It wasn't even a close call. He would do whatever it took to keep Karen and Foggy safe.

Frank turned the car to the curb, stopped, and shut off the engine. Matt got out of the car and followed Frank to a building a block away. He soon discovered the place was a real shithole. As they climbed the stairs to the third floor, there was no escaping the decades of cooking smells permanently embedded in the walls, along with a more recent overlay of cat piss on the risers. When Matt ran his hand lightly along the wall, the ancient paint (probably lead-based and toxic as hell, he thought sourly) flaked off easily. On the third floor, Frank turned down a short hallway and entered the apartment at the end. Matt followed him.

"So where are we?" Matt asked after Frank closed the door.

"My place," Frank replied curtly.

"I know that, asshole," Matt said, "I meant, where is this place?"

"So, what, you mean you can't, I dunno, sniff out where we are, or somethin'?"

"It doesn't work that way."

"Well, if you don't know, I ain't telling you," Frank declared. "Better you don't know."

"Better for you, you mean," Matt retorted. Frank didn't respond. He crossed the room and sat down at a table. From the cluttered table top, he picked up a gun and began cleaning it. Matt took a seat on the couch, screwing up his nose at the smell of gun oil. Neither man spoke for several minutes, then Frank looked up from his task.

"How does it work, then?" he asked.

"I already told you," Matt replied impatiently, "my other senses."

"Not good enough," Frank told him. "If we're gonna do this, if we're gonna work together, I need to know what you can do. And what you can't."

"You said you were a 'trained observer'," Matt pointed out sarcastically. "So observe."

"Not good enough," Frank repeated. "I need to know how you do it, what your limits are."

Matt sighed. Sighted people could never understand how he did what he did without sight. Hell, he didn't fully understand it himself. And he did a piss-poor job of explaining his abilities, even when he wanted to. This definitely wasn't one of those times. But he had to admit Frank had a point. The way Frank saw it, they were going into battle together, and he needed to know the capabilities and the limitations of the man fighting alongside him. Matt waved his hand and said resignedly, "Go ahead. Ask your questions."

"Can you see anything at all?"

"No."

"But I've seen you fight. You don't, uh, you don't fight blind."

"No."

"And that's your hyped-up senses?"

"Yeah. I can tell where people and things are, even if they're behind me, and their size and shape, and when they move. And people's breathing and heartbeats tell me when they're going to attack."

"So the white cane, it's just a prop?"

"Basically, yes."

Frank absorbed this information in silence for a moment while he finished cleaning the gun and reassembled it. Then he said, "You said something before about hearing my heartbeat. You can really do that?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah. It tells me when someone is lying."

"Damn," Frank swore, shaking his head. After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He held it up. "What's this?"

"Your phone."

Frank tossed the device to Matt, who caught it. "Tell me what's on the screen," Frank ordered.

Matt shrugged. "No idea."

"And you have no idea where we are?"

"Not exactly." Matt set the phone on the coffee table in front of him and thought for a moment. "It's not like I can read the street signs. I know we're not in Hell's Kitchen. I'd know if we were. We went through a tunnel on the way here, so we're not in Manhattan. My money's on Brooklyn, but I don't know for sure."

Frank got up from his place at the table and moved to a chair across from the couch, facing Matt. "Your dad was a boxer. He teach you to fight?"

"No. He didn't want me to fight."

"But someone trained you."

"Yeah, a blind son of a bitch named Stick. He wanted a soldier for his private war. He found me at the orphanage, after my dad died, and trained me."

"Damn, Red, that's fucked up," Frank declared, running a hand through his hair.

"You have no idea," Matt muttered.

"His 'private war'?" Frank asked.

Matt frowned. "It's a long story. Some other time, maybe. Anything else you need to know?"

"Not right now."

"Your turn, then. Tell me what you know about the Russians."

# # # # #

_Frank_

There were still a few hours left before dawn when he and Red stepped onto the roof of a former plastics factory in Long Island City, one of the locations he had identified as part of the Russians' operations. Red stood quietly next to him, his head down and inclined to one side. He seemed to concentrate for a minute, then raised his head and said, "Lot of activity inside."

"Can you tell what they're doing?"

Red shook his head. "Most of 'em are together on the first floor, in the middle of the building, probably what was the old factory floor. A few are moving around, though." He paused and tilted his head again. "They're armed."

"How many?" Frank asked.

"Six."

"How many others?"

"Too many to count."

"Shit," Frank swore under his breath.

"I'm not picking up anyone anywhere else in the building," Red added. "Vanessa isn't here." He frowned.

"Yeah," Frank agreed. "Too many people. They'd want to keep her location under wraps."

Red cocked his head for an instant, then tensed. "Someone's coming," he whispered. He turned and sprinted across the roof, then crouched down behind the corroded shell of an old air conditioning unit. Frank followed him.

Two men emerged from the stairwell and headed toward the far end of the roof, where they sat down on the parapet wall. Reflexively, Frank reached for the 9 mm. semi-automatic in his waistband. Red's hand clamped down on his forearm. "Wait," he hissed.

Frank risked a quick glance around the side of the A/C unit. A match scraped and flared, followed by the smell of cigarette smoke. He let out his breath. "Just a smoke break," he told Red, who nodded. Probably knew that already, Frank realized.

After taking a couple of drags on their cigarettes, the men began talking. Their voices were too low for Frank to make out what they were saying, but apparently Red could hear them. He had gone very still, his head inclined toward the two men. Frank now knew that meant he was listening. When Frank could no longer hear even the men's murmurs, Red raised his head. "I couldn't get it all," he said. "They were speaking a mix of Russian and English. But it's a drug operation. Heroin."

"Motherfuckers," Frank growled through clenched teeth, remembering men he'd served with, men who were now trapped in the hell of opioid addiction. The two men smoking on the roof and the people in the building below them were keeping them in that hell. He pulled out his gun and charged.

"_No!"_ Red yelled, too late. Frank fired, hitting one of the men. He was dead before he hit the deck, a bullet in his head. As Frank took aim at the second man, Red rushed him, knocking his arm up as he fired. Then Red took down the second man with a vicious kick to the head.

"God damn it, Frank," Red said in a furious whisper. "You didn't need to kill him. He was just the hired help."

"Oh, yeah?" Frank sneered. "Well, now no other scumbags can hire him to do their dirty work." He turned and strode toward the stairwell door.

"What're you doing?" Red demanded.

"Finishing the job."

"This isn't the job," Red said, waving his hand at the two men lying on the roof. "Finding Vanessa is."

Frank shrugged. "Suit yourself," he replied as he started down the stairwell.

"Fuck," Red muttered, and followed him.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Frank opened the door a crack and peered out. He swore under his breath as he closed the door quietly. "What is it?" Red asked.

"You can't tell?" Frank asked sarcastically.

"It's better if you just describe it to me."

"OK. There's one big room with two long tables in the middle. Women on both sides of the tables, doing . . . something, maybe cutting and packaging the drugs. Two armed men, one at the far end of each table. You said there were six, counting the two on the roof, right?"

Red nodded. "Yeah."

"So where are the other two?"

Red lowered his head, apparently concentrating, but on what? Sounds? Smells? Vibrations? Frank had no idea what he was doing or how he was doing it. All he knew was that it was weird as hell. And it worked. After a few seconds, Red raised his head and said, "About thirty feet. Three o'clock."

Frank considered the situation, needing to come up with a plan. Red interrupted his chain of thought.

"What're you waiting for, Frank?" Red goaded him.

"A plan."

"You mean you're not just gonna bust in there and take everyone out?"

"I need to take out the guards without the women getting caught in the crossfire."

Red scoffed. "You're worried about them? It's not like they're innocent bystanders. They're part of the operation, too."

"So, what, you want me to just blow them away?"

"You know where I stand on that," Red told him coldly.

Frank shot a disgusted look at him, not caring that Red couldn't see it. "I'm not taking out unarmed women. We don't know what their deal is. Maybe they're part of the operation, maybe not. They got armed guards standing over them."

"Guarding the drugs, not them," Red pointed out.

"Maybe," Frank conceded. "But the assholes with the guns, they're definitely part of it. I have to end them."

"No, you don't."

"Just shut the fuck up, will you, Red?" Frank demanded. "Do you know how many of my men, men I served with, guys who would've laid down their lives for me – and I would've done the same – do you know how many of them came home and got hooked on that shit? I can't let these guys go. I _can't._"

"That sucks," Red replied. "I'm not gonna tell you it doesn't. And I was born and raised in Hell's Kitchen. I know what addiction looks like. But killing these assholes isn't gonna help your men. Like I said before, they're just the hired help. Kill them, and others take their place. The only thing killing them does is make you feel better. . . temporarily."

Shit. Red was right. "God damn you, Red," Frank growled. "You have a better idea?"

Red nodded. "I do." He pressed his lips together, thinking. "We flush them out, then destroy the drugs."

Frank weighed the idea in his mind. Then he nodded. "OK. We'll do it your way."

"Good. You take care of the two guys guarding the tables, and I'll handle the other two. When you see I'm in position and you're ready to move in, say that thing you say, real quiet-like. I'll hear you." He crept out of the stairwell door and moved stealthily to his right. Frank watched him as he made his way along the wall, behind a row of packing crates and stacked pallets. Then Red stopped and gave a curt nod in Frank's direction. Time to move.

Frank eased out of the doorway and moved to his left, crouching down behind a rusted piece of machinery he couldn't identify. Staying in the shadows close to the wall, he crossed a five-foot gap without being spotted and took cover behind an overturned work bench. He pulled out his gun and aimed it at the left knee of the guard closest to him. "Doin' it your way, Red," he thought irritably. Then he whispered, "One batch, two batch, penny and dime," and pulled the trigger. The man howled in pain and went down, dropping his weapon. Off to one side, the women working at the tables scattered, screaming. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Red throw one of his batons and leap into the air.

Then his own fight demanded all of his attention. The man he'd hit was on the floor, clutching his knee. He wasn't going anywhere, but his gun was still a threat. Pushing the work bench in front of him, Frank moved toward the injured man. The second guard opened fire, but the rounds bounced off the metal surface of the bench. When the injured guard's gun was within his reach, Frank stuck his left arm out from behind the bench and grabbed it. A bullet grazed the top of his left hand. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. He jerked his hand back but managed to hold on to the gun.

The sound of gunfire came from across the room, followed soon after by the sound of a weapon clattering to the floor and skidding across it. Apparently Red was holding his own. Frank turned his attention back to his remaining adversary, who continued to fire ineffectually at the work bench. Frank shook his head in disbelief, thankful for stupid criminals. When he heard bullets striking the right end of the bench, he fired from behind the left end, aiming at the hand that was holding the gun. The man screamed and dropped the weapon. Frank charged out from behind the bench and finished him with a couple of blows to the head. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious. The other man got the same treatment.

Frank looked across the room and saw Red, breathing hard and holding on to a packing crate to steady himself. On the floor next to him were the two remaining guards, probably unconscious, too. "You OK, man?" Frank called out.

"Yeah, I'm good." Red assured him. "You?"

"Yeah, just a little scratch."

"Then let's finish this."

They met at the tables in the center of the room. All of the women had fled, leaving the drugs behind. Frank guessed some of them might have grabbed a few packages for themselves or to sell, but most of the deadly product was still there. He and Red swept the packages and containers of loose powder off the tables and onto the concrete floor, then pushed the material together in a mound. Frank pulled out a lighter, but Red put a hand on his arm to stop him. "Wait," he said, jerking his head toward two of the unconscious men on the floor. "We gotta get them out first."

"Damn altar boy," Frank grumbled, but he went along with it, dragging two of the men outside, while Red did the same with the other two.

"_Now_ can we finish it?" Frank asked sarcastically when the four men were safely out of the building.

"Knock yourself out."

Frank pulled out the lighter again and lit the drugs' paper packaging in several places. The fire flared up and took hold. They stood there for a minute, watching it (or whatever Red did). Then Red said, "Fire department's coming," long before Frank heard the sirens. They left the building by a side door and kept to the alleys and side streets as they made their way back to Frank's car.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

_Karen_

Karen was the first to wake up the next morning. Marci and Foggy were still asleep in the locker room, on a training mat someone had left behind. It looked gross, but it was better than the thin padding of the boxing ring, where Karen had spent a restless night. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, then rolled her neck, trying to work out the kinks that came from using her backpack as a makeshift pillow. She pushed herself up from the floor and made her way to the table. She pulled out one of the folding chairs and sat, then opened her laptop. It was all over the news: the kidnappers had released a video of Vanessa, holding up today's issue of the _Bulletin_ as proof of life. They were demanding Wilson Fisk and $10 million in exchange for her release. Karen scoffed. There was no way the authorities were going to give up Fisk. Never mind the $10 million. If Matt and Frank didn't rescue her, Vanessa was doomed. And so were they.

It wasn't only up to Matt and Frank, she reminded herself, resuming her search for leads on the Albanians, her prime suspects in the kidnapping. The government had dropped the charges against most of them, including the leaders, after Fisk's manipulation of the FBI was exposed. The cases against them were too tainted by the involvement of the compromised FBI agents. A few Albanians were still in custody on unrelated charges, but those who had been released seemed to be off the grid. Whatever they were doing now, they were staying under the radar.

After an hour or so, she leaned back and rubbed her eyes. She wondered what Matt and Frank were doing. Contacting Frank had seemed like a good idea at the time; rescuing Vanessa wasn't a one-man job, not even for Matt. But she knew from experience that even her good ideas had a tendency to go sideways. She hoped this wasn't one of those times. She was about to get back to work when she was startled by three taps on the gym's door. Her heart pounding, she crept silently toward the door. A man's voice came through the door. "Do you have today's edition of the_ Times?_"

It was the code phrase Frank had given her. She breathed a sigh of relief. As instructed, she answered, "We only read the _Bulletin._"

The expected reply came. "That'll do."

She opened the door and saw a bushy-haired, bearded man. "You must be David," she said, stepping back to admit him.

"The same," he replied. "And you must be Karen."

She held out her hand. "Karen Page."

"David Lieberman," he said, shaking her hand.

"Thanks for coming," Karen said as she walked back to the table and sat down.

David joined her. As he did so, Foggy burst out of the locker room. "Karen!" he exclaimed. "Who the hell is this?"

David stood up and held out his hand. "David Lieberman," he said. "Frank sent me."

Foggy ignored David and gave Karen a shocked look. "Frank?" he asked. "As in Frank Castle?" Karen nodded. "What the hell?"

"I contacted him. I didn't want Ma – uh, Daredevil – going after the kidnappers alone."

Marci emerged from the locker room. _"You called that homicidal maniac?"_

"He's not like that," Karen replied.

"Tell that to the families of the people he's murdered," Marci snapped back.

David held up a hand and raised his voice, "People, _people_, can we pause this discussion until I get you to a safe place?" Foggy gave him a surprised look. "That's why I'm here."

"That's right," Karen confirmed, "David's very good at not being found."

"OK," Foggy said resignedly. "What's the plan?"

An hour later, they were climbing out of the back of a panel van parked in an alley behind a small Catholic church on a side street in Hell's Kitchen. The church was closed now, a casualty of the latest round of "parish consolidations" carried out by the diocese. They hurried from the van to a back door, which David had already unlocked. As they descended the stairs to the church basement, Karen suppressed a frisson of dread. The last time she hid out in a church basement, things hadn't ended well. Then she reminded herself it wasn't all bad. That same church basement was where she and Matt began to rebuild their relationship.

# # # # #

_Matt_

After a few hours' sleep at Frank's apartment, Matt and Frank woke up to the same news Karen had heard. "In breaking news in the kidnapping of Vanessa Fisk," the NY1 news anchor was saying, "the kidnappers have now made a ransom demand: $10 million and Wilson Fisk, in exchange for Mrs. Fisk's safe return. The NYPD and FBI both declined comment. In other breaking news, the White House . . . ." Matt tuned out the anchor's voice and considered the implications of the kidnappers' demand.

"That changes everything," he told Frank.

Frank finished pouring himself a cup of coffee and set the coffee pot down on the kitchen counter. "How so?"

"We don't need to track the Russians. We get Fisk and exchange him for Vanessa."

"Whoa, cowboy, slow down," Frank said. "You don't just walk into a maximum security prison and walk out with its most high-profile inmate."

"So we come up with a plan."

"I'm not saying it can't be done, but it would take more resources – and more time – than we have," Frank replied. "Kidnappers aren't known for their patience, you know. The longer they have Vanessa, the worse it is for her. They start getting antsy, I don't like her chances. Plus, the kidnappers aren't only demanding Fisk. They want $10 million. You got an extra $10 million lying around? I don't."

Matt considered this. Frank had a point, but he didn't want to give up on the idea. "What about your hacker friend, David? He could get the money."

"Not happening," Frank said flatly. "Besides," he went on, "if the kidnappers are Russians out for revenge, when they get Fisk, they're gonna kill him. You down with that? I mean, you couldn't kill him yourself when you had the chance."

"What the fuck?" Matt asked himself. Frank knew about that? There was only one person who could have told him. Shit. Aloud, he asked, "You got a better idea?"

"Yeah. My money's still on the Russians. I got a couple more locations we can check out today."

"And if that doesn't pan out, it's a day wasted," Matt pointed out. "And Vanessa's still at risk. So are Karen and Foggy."

"Don't worry about Karen and Nelson," Frank assured him. "David's got them stashed in a safe place."

"Where?"

"Don't know. It's better if we don't." Frank picked up a gun and stuck it in his waistband, then put a second weapon in an ankle holster and strapped it on. He grabbed a couple of spare magazines and put them in his pockets. "C'mon, Red," he said, "let's go."

Matt put on his jacket and baseball cap and stuffed his mask and gloves into his pockets, before he followed Frank out of the apartment.

Frank's car was parked several blocks away. Once they were sure they weren't being followed or watched, they made their way to the car and got in. After they turned onto a street that felt and sounded like a major thoroughfare, Matt asked, "Where're we going, Frank?"

"South Brooklyn. Docks." Frank spat out the words. Damn. There was something Frank didn't want him to know.

"What's there?"

"Russians. Guns."

Matt wasn't sure why Frank was being so closemouthed, but he was sure he needed to find out. "You've been tracking the Russians." Frank nodded. "Why?"

Frank didn't answer right away. Matt was beginning to think he wasn't going to answer, when he finally said, "Coupla loose ends I needed to clean up. We've been tracking them, David and me. Ended up working for the Russians."

Shit. So that was it. It wasn't about protecting Karen at all. Frank had his own agenda in all this. Might as well get it out in the open. Matt took a deep breath and spoke. "So that's what this is about? Getting me to help you with your personal vendetta? Is that it?"

"No, asshole," Frank snapped. "It's about _me_ helping _you_ protect Karen." His heartbeat was elevated from anger, but held steady. Matt gave an inward sigh of relief. After a moment, Frank added scornfully, "God knows you need my help, choir boy. And if we find the scumbags I've been tracking, well, that's just gravy."

"OK," Matt said. "You have a plan?"

Frank nodded. "They're running the operation out of the basement of a warehouse at the docks. The rest of the building's vacant. So if they have the woman there, she'll be on one of the upper floors, away from the action. We go in from the roof and check it out."

"All right," Matt said. "Let's do it."

# # # # #

_Frank_

Frank drove for another ten minutes, watching for tails and making multiple turns to lose anyone who might be following them. Finally satisfied they were clear, he brought the car to a stop behind a five-story, red brick building near the South Brooklyn waterfront. "We're here," he said as he turned off the engine and got out of the vehicle. Red put on his mask and gloves and got out of the car, leaving his jacket and baseball cap behind.

"Fire escape," Frank said, gesturing to his left. Red leaped up and grabbed a rung of the retractable ladder leading to the fire escape. He pulled it down, then climbed up to the fire escape and ascended it. Frank followed. They emerged onto the roof, keeping low as it was still daylight. Red crouched in a corner of the roof, his head tilted down in the now-familiar posture that told Frank he was focusing. After a few moments, he raised his head.

"The only activity I'm picking up is concentrated in one location," he reported.

"Probably the operation in the basement."

"Yeah," Red agreed. He frowned and added, "No outliers."

"We need to check it out anyway," Frank said, heading for the door to the stairwell. He tried it. Locked.

Red was right behind him. "No problem," he said, pulling a set of lock picks out of his pocket. "I got this." He smirked.

Of course he did. Smug motherfucker. Frank suppressed a grin as he watched Red quickly open the door.

"After you," Red said, with a wave of his hand.

Frank entered the stairwell and descended, followed by Red, who closed the door behind him. The lock snicked back into place. When they arrived at the fifth-floor landing, Red paused and listened. "No one here," he said. The scenario repeated itself on the fourth- and third-floor landings. But when they reached the second floor, Red stood up straight and froze. "Someone's coming," he whispered, "from below. Two of them."

Acting in silent concert, they left the stairwell, closing the door quietly behind them, and emerged into the empty space of the second floor. They stood to the right of the door, where they would be hidden if someone opened it. Someone did. Frank and Red flattened themselves against the wall as the door swung open. Two men entered.

"She ain't here, I'm tellin' you," one of them said.

"Yeah, I got that."

"Kingpin's gonna be pissed, we don't find her," the first man added.

"No shit, Sherlock."

Shit. They were Fisk's men. They might be looking for Vanessa, but they'd be just as happy to find Red and take him out, while they were at it. Frank sneaked a glance at Red. The expression on his face told Frank he knew it, too.

As the door started to close, Red sprinted out from behind it and jumped the thug closer to him. Frank followed at a run, toward the other thug, halfway across the room. The man heard him coming and raised his gun, but Frank was close enough to chop down, hard, on his forearm. He dropped the weapon. Frank kicked it away, then delivered punches to his jaw and kidneys. The man wobbled but stayed on his feet and connected with an uppercut to Frank's jaw. Damn, Frank thought, the guy's trained. He bull-rushed his opponent, coming in close and head-butting him. The thug replied with a left to the center of his chest, forcing Frank to step back.

In his peripheral vision, Frank caught a glimpse of Red as his opponent landed a blow on the right side of his head. Red staggered back, holding his right hand to his head and his left arm extended in front of him. He threw a punch that missed by a wide margin. "Damn," Frank thought, "he looks lost." Then he corrected himself. "No, he looks blind. What the fuck?" He put down his opponent with two quick blows to the head, then took out his handgun and struck him with the butt, making sure he would stay down. Then he dashed across the room to where Red was fighting. Red seemed to have recovered from whatever it was, but Frank was taking no chances. He took down Red's opponent with another blow from the butt of his handgun.

"Thanks, man," Red said. He tilted his head. "Two more coming." There was no time to ask Red what just happened. Within a few seconds, two men emerged from the stairwell, raising their guns. Red was close enough to them to kick one man's hand, forcing him to drop the gun. Frank rushed the other one before he could fire and wrenched the gun from his grasp. Once they were disarmed, the fight seemed to go out of them. Soon both were lying on the floor, unconscious.

"Let's get outta here," Frank said. Red nodded and headed for the stairwell. They descended to the first floor and left the building by the back exit.

As Frank drove away, Red took off his mask and put on his baseball cap, pulling its bill down to conceal the top half of his face. He sat with his head turned toward the window, as if he was looking out, for a couple of minutes, then turned back toward Frank and said, "Thanks, man, for having my back."

"What happened back there?" Frank asked.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

Frank scoffed. "Don't bullshit me, Red. That wasn't 'nothing.' You looked . . . lost."

"The word you're looking for is 'blind'," Red said scathingly. "I hate to be the one to break it to you, but I _am_ blind. Deal with it."

"Damn it, Red, I told you last night. If we're gonna do this thing, I gotta know about this shit, what you can do, what you can't do."

Red sighed. Apparently Frank had made his point. "OK," he said. "The hearing in my right ear crapped out on me for a few seconds. That's all."

"That happen often?"

"No."

They lapsed into silence. Frank drove, Red did whatever he did. Red was the one to break the silence. "You want to say something. Say it."

Frank looked at him, surprised. "You read minds now?"

"No. Your breathing changes. Just say what you have to say."

"Didn't do it for you, y'know. I did it for Karen. She'd never forgive me if I let you get your ass killed."

"Yeah. I know. She'd never forgive me, either." Red gave a pained half-grin.

"When you weren't around, after that building fell, I saw Karen a few times. You know that?"

"Yeah. She told me."

"Do you know what that did to her, thinking you were dead?"

"I have a pretty good idea," Red told him.

"I don't think you do, asshole, 'cause you weren't there. I was. She was all torn up over it. She didn't want to believe it, but Nelson kept telling her she had to face the facts. She put up a good front, but she was hurting inside, hurting real bad. I know her. I could tell. What the fuck were you thinking, man?"

"I don't owe you an explanation," Red said icily.

"Fair enough," Frank replied. "But you owe her one."

"You think I don't know that?"

Frank shrugged. "I dunno."

"Not that it's any of your business, but we've talked about why I did . . . what I did."

"Good. But know this. If you ever hurt her like that again, I will come for you and I will kill you. You got that?"

Red nodded. "Yeah, I got it," he said quietly. Then he added, so softly that Frank could barely hear him, "Maybe I'll let you."

Red's response shocked Frank into silence. "What the fuck, Red?" he thought.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4  
_

_Karen_

Karen looked up from her laptop. "Holy shit," she breathed.

"What is it?" Foggy asked. "You found something?"

"Maybe." Karen leaned forward, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. "Vanessa was at an art gallery when she was kidnapped."

"So?"

"So it wasn't just any art gallery. She was at an exhibition of artworks stolen by the Nazis that had been returned to their rightful owners."

"OK," Foggy said slowly.

"One of the articles about the kidnapping linked to another article, about one of the paintings in the exhibit. A painting that's connected to Fisk."

Marci looked up from her work. "'Rabbit in a Snowstorm'," she said.

Karen nodded. "Right."

"But what's the connection to Fisk?" Foggy asked.

"Fisk used to own the painting," Karen explained. "When the feds convicted Fisk in the RICO case, it was forfeited, along with his other assets, and returned to the rightful owner. Right before Fisk was arrested again, two years ago, there was a home invasion. An elderly woman – a Holocaust survivor – was killed, and a valuable painting was stolen – _that_ painting. Guess where it was found?"

"Fisk's penthouse," Marci replied.

"You got it," Karen confirmed. "Fisk was charged with receiving stolen property, but he wasn't prosecuted for the murder. Blake Tower claimed there wasn't enough evidence to connect him to the killing."

"Yeah, I remember now," Foggy said.

"And didn't the woman's family make a big stink when Tower refused to charge Fisk with the murder?" Marci added.

"Not only that," Karen said, "the woman's grandsons talked to the media a lot, when they were pressuring Tower to change his mind. Some of what they said sounds like threats against Fisk."

"Like what?" Foggy asked.

"Stuff like, 'If the DA doesn't do his job, we'll do it for him,' or 'We're not going to let Fisk get away with this,' or 'He's going to pay for this.' That kind of thing."

"Maybe they were just venting," Marci pointed out.

"Could be," Karen agreed. "But we still need to check them out. And tell Matt."

# # # # #

_Matt_

Frank shut up. Finally. Thank God. Matt didn't want to listen to Frank talk about Karen. He definitely didn't want to think about Karen meeting Frank. Or what they did when they met. And he was done with answering Frank's questions about his abilities. Frank claimed to be a 'trained observer.' Let him observe. If Frank hadn't figured things out by now, tough shit.

As if on cue, his burner phone buzzed.

"Yeah," he growled, answering it.

"Hey, Matt."

Karen. Of course it would be her calling.

"Hey, Karen, what's up?"

"I found something. I'm not sure, but it might be a lead."

Matt listened intently as Karen related what she'd found out about the painting, the murder, and the threats by the murdered woman's grandsons. When she finished, he said, "Yeah. The story kind of got buried, with everything else that was going down at the time, but I remember it, now that you mention it."

"I'm thinking you and Frank need to have a talk with the grandsons."

"You think?" Matt asked. "I'm guessing they were just letting off steam."

"That's what Marci thought," Karen admitted. "But I still think we need to look at them."

"OK," Matt said. He trusted Karen's instincts. She was usually right about these things. "Do you know where to find them?"

"We're working on it. David is keeping track of them on social media. And I think he has other ways of tracking them that he's not telling me about. I'll call you when we have a location."

"Good. Stay safe."

# # # # #

Matt and Frank were in an out-of-the-way diner in Brooklyn, planning their next move, when Karen called again. "Are you somewhere you can talk?" she asked. "Both of you need to hear this."

Matt checked their surroundings. "Yeah," he replied, putting his phone on speaker and setting it down on the table.

"I found out more about the murder victim," Karen told them. "This is what I wrote up from my notes."

"Let's hear it," Frank said. He put his forearms on the table and leaned forward to listen.

Karen began reading. "Her name was Esther Falb. She was born in a town in eastern Germany, near the Polish border, shortly before World War II. Her family had lived there for generations. Her father was a respected doctor, one of the leaders of the town's Jewish community. When Esther was a small child, the Nazis came to arrest and deport the family. When her father resisted, they killed him in front of his wife and children. They stole everything of value, including the painting, and forced Esther, her mother, and her sisters and brother, to march across Poland to the ghetto. Only Esther and her mother survived the march. Sometime after that, she and her mother were sent to the Buchenwald concentration camp. Her mother was killed there. When the Americans liberated Buchenwald, they found Esther there, half-dead. The only family they could find were distant cousins, living in the Bronx. When Esther was well enough to travel, they sent her to live with them."

"Jesus," Matt breathed, sickened.

"She grew up in the Bronx and met her husband, Ernst Falb, there," Karen continued. "He was a refugee, too, but his story was different. His parents saw what was coming, after _Kristallnacht_, and sent him and his brother to England on one of the _"Kindertransports"_ organized to rescue Jewish children. He and his brother spent the war years in England. They were the only members of their immediate family who survived. After the war, like Esther, he and his brother were sent to America to live with relatives in the Bronx. He and Esther married and raised two sons. Along the way, they started a successful restaurant supply business. But they made their money in real estate, investing mostly in the redevelopment of the Bronx. Their family trust still owns about two dozen properties there."

Frank interrupted. "You really think this is about Mrs. Falb's murder?"

"I don't know," Karen admitted. "But I don't think we can rule it out."

"If it is, could Vanessa be at one of the family's properties?"

"Not likely. They're all fully occupied. It would be too risky to take Vanessa to one of them. Someone would notice."

"So, how do we find her, assuming the Falb family is involved?" Matt asked.

"I think our best bet is to find her grandsons, Nathan and Joshua Falb," Karen replied. "They're the ones who were the most vocal about getting 'justice' for their grandmother."

Matt felt sick to his stomach again, as he replayed Mrs. Falb's story in his mind. These were the people they were going after? Her family had suffered so much already. He could not, would not, add to their suffering. But what if that was the only way to find Vanessa and keep Karen and Foggy safe? No. He had to find another way. "Thanks, Karen," he said as she ended the call.

The two men sat in silence, considering the implications of what Karen had told them. Frank was the first to speak. "I don't like this," he declared.

"Me neither."

"So what do we do?"

"Find the grandsons," Matt said, "and see what they have to say for themselves."

# # # # #

Uncertain of their next move, Matt and Frank returned to Frank's apartment. They were still debating what to do when Karen called again. "We got a location on the grandsons," she said, after Matt put the phone on speaker.

"Hit me," Frank said, rummaging through the clutter on the table top and finding a pen and a scrap of paper.

Karen read off the address of a club in SoHo. "David says they got there an hour or so ago. Surveillance cameras showed them parking their car, a red Porsche, in the alley behind the place."

"Thanks," Frank said. "We're on our way."

"They're still here – or at least their car is," Frank told Matt when they arrived in the alley a half hour later. Frank concealed himself in the shadows behind a dumpster between the club's back door and the car. Matt crouched on the lid of a dumpster a little farther down the alley, blocking an escape in that direction.

They had to wait more than an hour, but two young men eventually emerged from the building and started to walk toward the car. They only took a couple of steps before they froze. Frank had stepped out from the shadows. One of them muttered, "Fuck," while the other simply gasped. Then they both turned and began to run away from Frank, toward the far end of the alley. They stopped short when Matt leaped down from the dumpster and stood in front of them. Their hearts racing, their adrenaline spiking, they were in full "fight or flight" mode, but trapped between Daredevil and the Punisher, they had nowhere to run, and no hope of winning a fight.

"God, no, please," one of them pleaded.

The other one simply wailed, "Noooo."

Frank was the one who spoke to them. "Chill out, boys," he said. "No need to shit your pants. We just want to talk. Now, who's Nathan and who's Joshua?"

"I'm Nathan," one of them said.

"I'm Joshua," the other replied, in a slightly higher-pitched voice. "But how do you know who we are?"

Frank ignored the question. "We just need you to give the right answers to a few questions, and then we'll be on our way. First question: where is Vanessa Fisk?"

Nathan spluttered, "What . . . uh, who . . . uh, why d'you . . . uh, how'd you find . . . .?" He finally got out a full sentence. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Not very well informed, are they, Red?" Frank sneered. "The kidnapping's been all over the news for two days, and they know nothing about it."

"He's lying," Matt replied.

"Right." Frank turned and addressed Nathan again. "My associate here – " He jerked his head toward Matt. " – that would be Daredevil, he knows when people are lying. And it makes him _very_ unhappy. You wanna reconsider your last answer?"

Nathan gulped. There seemed to be some nonverbal communication going on between him and Joshua that Matt couldn't pick up. Finally, Joshua answered. "You know about our grandmother? What happened to her?"

"Yes," Matt replied quietly.

"That goddamn bastard had her killed, _for a painting."_

"You mean Fisk," Matt prompted him.

"Yes."

"But why take Vanessa?"

Nathan scoffed. "She was in it up to her eyeballs. When we got the painting back, there was blood on it, some on the painting itself, and some on the frame. When we had it tested, the blood on the painting didn't match our grandmother's. From the news reports of what happened that night, we're guessing that blood was Fisk's." He tipped his head toward Matt. "I suppose we have you to thank for that."

When Matt didn't respond to the comment, Nathan continued, "But the blood on the frame was a match. Vanessa had to know that Fisk tried and failed to get the painting back from our grandmother. She must have seen the blood on the frame and knew what it meant, but she kept the painting anyway. She's as guilty as he is."

Joshua added, "Besides, we couldn't get to Fisk, not in prison. So this was the next best thing. And we got to fuck with his head."

"How'd you do it?" Frank asked.

"We put the painting in the exhibition – you know about that?" Frank and Matt both nodded. "We knew she wouldn't be able to resist coming to see it. Then we found a couple of Russians with their own score to settle with Fisk and hired them to snatch her from the gallery."

"Jesus H. Christ," Frank swore. "Tell me you don't seriously think you're getting your hands on Fisk and $10 million."

"No," Joshua admitted miserably. "That was the Russians. Like I said, we basically just wanted to fuck up Fisk's head. No one was supposed to get hurt."

"Fucking idiots," Frank muttered under his breath.

"So, what're you gonna do to us?" Nathan asked hopelessly.

"Nothing," Matt replied, "if you play your cards right."

"Hold on a damn minute, Red," Frank growled, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him down the alley. "Don't even think of running," Frank admonished the brothers, pulling out his handgun and pointing it in their direction.

When they were out of earshot, Frank hissed, "What the fuck, Red? You deaf now, too? Those assholes just confessed to hiring the kidnappers. I thought you were all about the law. What happened to that, huh?"

"I heard 'em." Matt wrenched his arm from Frank's grasp and turned to face him. "C'mon, Frank, get real," he said. "Do you seriously think Blake Tower is gonna prosecute the grandsons of a Holocaust survivor who was murdered by Wilson Fisk?"

"But – "

"No, 'buts,' Frank," Matt interrupted. "That family has suffered enough. I'm not adding to it. And you're forgetting the job – which is getting Vanessa out alive and keeping Karen and Foggy safe. If we're not gonna kill them – " He jerked his head in the general direction of the brothers. " – and we're not, we need their cooperation, their _willing_ cooperation."

"How you planning on getting that?"

"Everyone keeps their mouth shut, no one gets hurt, and we all walk away."

"You really think that'll happen?"

"I do. Think about it. Those two guys, they're a coupla rich kids who got in way over their heads. They're looking for a way out. The Russians . . . we just have to hope they're not stupid. They gotta know the only way this ends well for them is if they let Vanessa go and keep their mouths shut."

"Maybe," Frank conceded. "But aren't you forgetting someone?" Matt turned toward him, a questioning expression on his face. "Fisk."

Matt shook his head. "Nope. Vanessa can handle him. And she can call off his people, the ones who are looking for Karen and Foggy. Once she's back in control, she can keep them in line. Fisk told me she's the one who's been doing that, the past two years."

Frank fell silent. Matt could almost hear his mind working, running through their options. Finally he said, "OK, we'll do it your way." He shrugged and started walking back down the alley. He stopped and turned around when Matt spoke up.

"Look," he said. "I know we're not exactly on the side of the angels here. But I would make a deal with the devil himself to keep Karen and Foggy safe."

Frank scoffed. "I think you already have."

Matt followed Frank back to where the brothers were waiting. "Here's how it's gonna work," he said. "You tell us where Vanessa is and what we need to know to get her out safely."

"OK," Nathan said. "And then?"

"We get Vanessa out, no one gets hurt, we all walk away."

"What about the Russians?" Joshua asked. "They're crazy, man, talking about cutting off Vanessa's head and crazy shit like that."

Damn. Matt had a pretty good idea of who the Russians were and why they kidnapped Vanessa.

"Leave them to us," Frank replied.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5_

_Frank_

The address Nathan gave them turned out to be a partially-demolished building at 48th and Ninth. On the way there, Red told Frank about the Ranskahov brothers, Anatoly and Vladimir, and how Fisk blew up their operations in Hell's Kitchen and had Vladimir murdered, after he decapitated Anatoly. "These Russians," he concluded, "they've gotta be connected to them somehow, out to get payback from Fisk."

Frank nodded. "Makes sense. Can't say I would've handled it the same way, but . . . ."

Red didn't respond. He probably had a pretty good idea how Frank would have handled the situation.

The condemned building was surrounded by a chain link fence, with an alley in the rear. Frank parked the car facing out, in case they needed to get out of there in a hurry. They scrambled over the fence. "Door, to the right," Frank whispered, taking a step in that direction.

"Wait," Red hissed, inclining his head toward the building. Frank waited silently. Presently, Red raised his head and said, "Three people, above ground level. Second or third floor."

The door was unlocked. Frank opened it and went inside. Red followed. They made their way to the stairway on the far wall, being careful to avoid the debris strewn about the floor. Frank stole a quick glance back at Red, but he didn't seem to have a problem with the obstacles in their path. When they reached the stairs, they switched places, Red going first. A few steps below the second floor, he stopped, listening and . . . whatever he did. He shook his head and kept going up. Just before they reached the third floor, he repeated his "listening" routine. This time, he nodded. "They're here," he whispered, gesturing for Frank to stand next to him on the step.

Once there, Frank risked a glance over the edge of the top step. It opened onto what was left of a room occupying about half of the floor space. In its center, two men sat at a table. At least two weapons, maybe more, were on the table; Frank couldn't tell from where he was. No sign of Vanessa. "Where's Vanessa?" he asked, keeping his voice as low as possible.

Red inclined his head to the right, indicating a wall that divided the space. Good, Frank thought. She won't be in the line of fire, if it comes to that. "I'll go around, get behind them," Red whispered. Frank nodded his agreement. Red emerged from the stairway and crept silently along the wall, staying in the shadows. Watching him, Frank wondered absently if Red knew he was in shadow. Then he shook his head. No time for idle curiosity. There was work to do.

When Red disappeared into the shadows on the far side of the room, Frank made his move. He whispered, "One batch, two batch, penny and dime," to signal Red, then sprinted toward the two men at the table. He and Red were on them before they had time to pick up and fire their weapons. Red knocked over the table with a leaping kick, sending the weapons skittering across the floor. When one of the men scrambled after them, Frank tackled him and brought him down. The two men grappled on the floor, neither able to gain the upper hand. Frank finally wrenched his right arm free of his opponent's grasp and landed a punch solidly on his jaw. While the Russian was momentarily dazed, Frank was able to straddle him. He landed a flurry of blows to the man's head until he lost consciousness and went limp.

Across the room, Red's opponent had picked up a two by four and was swinging it at Red. Red was dodging the blows but couldn't get close enough to do any damage to his opponent. The Russian's next swing was a near miss, near enough that Red was able to grab the end of the piece of wood. He twisted it violently, wrenching it from his opponent's grasp, then brought it down hard on the man's forearm. The Russian fell to his knees, clutching his wrist and screaming in pain. Red swung the two by four and struck the man on the back of the head. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

"You OK, man?" Frank asked after catching his breath.

"Yeah," Red said, panting. "You?"

"I'm good. Let's get the woman and finish this."

Red nodded and went into the adjoining room. Frank heard him and the woman talking, too quietly for him to make out what they were saying. So the woman was OK. Good. Time to clean up the two pieces of shit lying on the floor. As Red and the woman came out of the other room, he pulled out his gun, cocked it, and pointed it at one of the Russians. Red yelled, _"Nooooo!" _and launched himself at Frank, knocking his arm down and to the side. The gun fired, but the round went harmlessly into the floor.

"God damn you, Red," Frank growled. "We need to end them."

"That wasn't the deal, and you know it," Red snapped in reply. "Vanessa's safe, no one has to die."

"They're dead already," Frank argued, waving his hand at the two men on the floor. "Fisk will get to them if we don't."

"Not if everyone keeps their mouth shut."

Frank turned to Vanessa. "You OK with this, ma'am?"

Vanessa nodded. "Yes. Matthew explained it to me. And I'll handle Wilson."

So she knew Red's identity. Not a surprise, really. If the rumors were true, she'd been running Fisk's operations while he was inside. What Fisk knew, she knew. Frank studied her for a moment. Her dark, shoulder-length hair was a mess, and there were angry red marks on her wrists and ankles from the zip ties that had restrained her. Other than those abrasions and some scattered bruises, she appeared to be uninjured. She was apparently wearing the dress she had worn to the art exhibit two nights ago. It looked the worse for wear. Frank guessed it was going in the trash as soon as she got home. All in all, she was remarkably composed, for someone who'd been kidnapped and held captive for two days. If she said she could handle Fisk, he believed her. But there was something else he had to know.

"The woman who owned the painting, the one who was murdered, was that your husband?" he asked her.

"No," she said. "Wilson intended for her to keep the painting."

"Then who?"

"Agent Poindexter," she replied, "freelancing, seeking Wilson's approval."

"But you knew what happened?" Frank persisted.

"I suspected, yes."

"And you kept the painting?"

"We did."

Damn. He didn't like this. Vanessa might not have had a hand in Mrs. Falb's murder, but she knew about it and didn't say anything. And she kept the painting. This was the woman he was supposed to rescue? You made a deal, he reminded himself, glancing at Red. So, yes, that's exactly what he was supposed to do. You knew she was no angel when you agreed to help Red find her. He wasn't doing this for her, anyway. He was doing it for Karen.

One of the men on the floor stirred. He was regaining consciousness. Frank stood over him, still holding his gun, as he came to. It took a few more minutes for the second man to wake up. When they were both conscious, more or less, Red told them, "I'm Daredevil. My associate over there" – he jerked his head to the right – "is known as the Punisher. You may have heard of us. He kills people, I don't. So you can do things his way or my way. You do it my way, you get to keep living. Your choice. Understand?"

After both of the kidnappers nodded, Red continued. "This is what's gonna happen. We're walking out of here with Vanessa. We were never here. You keep your mouths shut, and the idiots who hired you keep their mouths shut. You get to walk away. Vanessa will deal with her husband and the police and the media and keep you out of it."

Vanessa nodded. "I will," she confirmed.

"You keep up your end of the deal, and no one gets killed. You don't . . . well, my associate here," he said, gesturing toward Frank, "is very good at finding people. And he doesn't have my scruples about killing them when he finds them. Got it?"

One of the kidnappers found his voice. "Not right," he said in accented English. "Fisk killed our cousins. He owes us."

"Anatoly and Vladimir were assholes," Red said dismissively. "And you've gotten all the payback you're gonna get. So deal with it. You know the alternative . . . ." He turned his head in Frank's direction.

"Might be a good time for a trip home to Mother Russia," Frank suggested. "I hear Moscow is lovely this time of year."

Frank, Red, and Vanessa stood to one side as the two men argued in Russian. The man Frank had fought, who appeared to be the older of the two, seemed to be arguing in favor of the deal, while the younger man was shaking his head, rejecting what the older man was telling him. Finally, still looking unhappy, he threw up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

"We agree," the older man said. Then he turned to Vanessa. "But how do we know you keep your word?"

Frank answered for her. "Watch the news, asshole."

Red turned to Frank and Vanessa. "We done here?"

They nodded. Red headed for the stairs. Frank and Vanessa followed him.

# # # # #

_Matt_

Outside the building, they got into Frank's car. Vanessa hid on the floor in the back seat. They dropped her off on a deserted street corner in Queens, where there was still a working pay phone. From there, she could call her people to pick her up. Not long after Matt and Frank got back to Frank's apartment, the news of Vanessa's "escape" was all over the news. They watched and listened to Vanessa spinning a compelling tale about her kidnapping and escape. Unfortunately, she told the interviewer, she couldn't identify the kidnappers; they wore ski masks and never spoke in her presence. She didn't know exactly where she was held, but she thought it was somewhere near the location in Queens where she was dropped off. All she wanted now was a hot bath and to forget her ordeal. Matt thought Brett Mahoney was not going to be happy that Vanessa had told her story to the media first, but there wasn't a hell of a lot he could do about it now.

When the coverage went to other news, Frank turned off the television. "Pretty convincing," he said, as he pulled a couple of bottles of beer out of the fridge.

"Yeah," Matt agreed, accepting the bottle Frank handed to him and taking a drink. The two men drank in silence, Matt sitting on Frank's battered couch, Frank across from him in a worn armchair.

Frank finished his beer and set the empty bottle down on the table. "You remember that night, in the cemetery, when we talked?"

"_You_ talked, you mean," Matt corrected him. "Yeah, I remember."

Frank chuckled. "I did, didn't I? And one of the things I said was that you'd make a hell of a Marine."

"You did."

"I'm reconsidering that statement."

"Well, it's not like I could've passed the eye test," Matt observed dryly. He took a drink of beer, then turned the almost-empty bottle around in his hands before setting it down.

"True. But that's not what I meant. In war, there's a chain of command, you've got to follow legal orders even if they're fucking stupid. Hell, they gave me a fucking medal because I followed a stupid order that got my men into a trap, and I had to get them out of it. But you, I don't think you would've followed that stupid order."

"You're right. I wouldn't." Matt drained his beer bottle and put it down on the table.

Frank went to the kitchen and took two more bottles out of the fridge. He handed one of them to Matt before he sat down again.

Matt took a long drink. He thought for a moment, before he said, "I never thanked you, for having my back that night . . . on the roof."

"I don't like to see anyone outnumbered, not like that," Frank said. "Sorry I didn't get there sooner . . . for the woman, you know."

"Nothing to be sorry about. She didn't stay dead."

Frank sat in stunned silence for a moment. "Damn, Red. Do you go looking for the weird shit, or does it just find you?"

"A little of both," Matt admitted.

"You want to explain that?"

"Maybe some other time," Matt replied. "Right now, I want to get back to Foggy and Karen. Can you call David, find out where they are?"

"You sure that's safe?" Frank asked.

"Yeah. Vanessa will call off her people."

"You trust her?"

"To do that, yeah," Matt confirmed. Matt finished his beer while Frank convinced David to give up the location of the church. When the call was over and Frank told him the address, he stood up to leave.

"Tell Karen . . . ," Frank began. He hesitated, then said, "Tell her . . . and Nelson, tell them I'm glad they're safe."

"I will." Matt didn't think that was what Frank wanted to say. He headed for the door. Frank followed him.

"See you around, Red," Frank said.

"Yeah, see you around," Matt replied as Frank closed the door behind him.

# # # # #

_Karen_

Karen sat up straight when she heard the door at the top of the stairway open and close. Then she let out her breath. Probably David, checking on them, she thought. But when she looked again, she saw Matt descending the stairs.

"Matt!" she exclaimed, jumping up and running across the room to meet him. She wrapped her arms around him and tried to kiss him, but he turned his face away. Her kiss landed on his cheek. "What the hell?" she thought. She stepped back and looked at him. He didn't look injured – no more so than usual. His expression was unreadable. What was going on with him?

Foggy and Marci interrupted her train of thought. "We saw the news. You did it, buddy," Foggy said, pulling Matt into a hug.

Matt nodded. "Yeah. Well, Frank and me."

"How'd you do it?" Foggy asked.

Matt went over to the table and sat down wearily. "I'll tell you about it later, OK?"

Karen scrutinized him. He looked tired. Maybe that explained his odd behavior. Or maybe he was falling back into his old, bad habit of pushing people away.

"So we can go home now, right?" Marci asked.

"Soon," Matt said. "In the morning, maybe. We need to give Vanessa time to call off her people."

"Oh, joy," Marci said, "another night in these luxurious accommodations."

"C'mon, babe," Foggy cajoled her, "it's not that bad." He put his arm around her waist, and they disappeared into what used to be the choir's robing room, which was serving as their bedroom.

Karen sat down at the table where she had been working, opposite Matt. "You sure you're OK?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Give it a rest, will you?" He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.

"OK," she thought, "be like that." She'd find out eventually why he was shutting her out, when they should have been celebrating. She had her ways of getting him to talk.

Her chance came that evening, after Foggy and Marci had said their good nights and retired to the robing room. She made herself a cup of tea and sat down next to Matt to drink it. After taking a sip, she said, "Are you gonna tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Does this have anything to do with me contacting Frank?" she asked. Bingo. Matt didn't answer her, but the guilty expression on his face gave him away. "That's it, isn't it?" He sat silently, his head bowed, for another minute or two. Karen persisted. "You know stonewalling won't work, not with me. You're going to talk to me, sooner or later."

Matt frowned and raised his head. "I just spent two days with Frank Castle. He had a lot to say – about you. What's the story with you and him?"

Karen had to suppress a laugh. Matt was jealous – of Frank? "_That's_ what this is about?"

"Yeah."

"OK." She took a minute to organize her thoughts. She wasn't going to lie to Matt, even if she could. Finally, she said, "Frank and I, we had . . . we have . . . a connection. I don't like what he does, most of the time, but I get him. I understand why he does what he does, some of the time, anyway. He's not the homicidal maniac Foggy and Marci think he is."

"I know," Matt said.

"You'll never admit it, but he's like you in a lot of ways."

"No, we're not," Matt objected. "He kills people, I don't."

"I'm not talking about his methods, I'm talking about what drives him – and you."

"No." Matt frowned and shook his head. "We're different. I want justice, he wants vengeance."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference," Karen pointed out.

"Not for me."

"Whatever." Karen shrugged. She wasn't going to debate justice versus vengeance with Matt. "All I'm saying is, you're the one who says there's good in everyone. There's good in Frank. And what's good in him reminds me of you. That's the story."

Matt sat back in his chair, apparently weighing her words. Then he leaned forward and said, "So why did Frank tell me that he told you it would never work between the two of you, and you should settle for me?"

Karen was shocked into silence. When she regained her voice, she asked, "Frank said that?"

"He did."

God damn you, Frank. He _had_ said something like that to her, the day she helped him escape from the hospital. She looked across the table at Matt, but the pain on his face was too much, and she had to look away. Matt apparently noticed the movement and misread it.

"You don't have to 'settle,' you know," he said. "If you want to be with Frank, I won't stop you."

She blinked back tears. "Oh, God, Matt, _no_," she said. "I don't want to be with Frank. I want to be with _you_. And I didn't 'settle.' I chose you. I choose you. I love you." She reached out and took both of his hands in hers. "Listen to my heartbeat, you'll know I'm telling the truth."

Matt inclined his head in her direction, listening to her heartbeat. She knew what it would tell him. Presently, he raised his head. He grinned sheepishly and said, "I'm an idiot, aren't I?"

"Tell me something I don't know," Karen replied with a smile. She leaned in and kissed him. This time, he didn't turn away.

# # # # #

_Postscript_

Two weeks after Vanessa's return, an unmarked delivery truck stopped and double parked in front of the brownstone that housed the offices of Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law, and Page Investigations. The two men in the truck took a large flat crate out of the back and carried it up the steps to the front door. "Delivery for Murdock," they announced when Karen opened the door. She stepped aside to admit them.

"Where d'you want this, lady?" one of them asked. By that time, Matt and Foggy had come out of their respective offices. Karen and Foggy exchanged puzzled looks, while Matt raised his eyebrows quizzically.

"Uh, you can open it here, I guess," Karen said.

The two delivery men quickly dismantled the crate and pulled out . . . something. Karen was the first to recognize what it was. She stifled a gasp of surprise.

"What is it?" Matt asked.

"It's a work of art," Karen replied. "Tactile art." She guided Matt to the artwork. The delivery men held it up. He ran his fingertips across it.

"What's it supposed to be?" he asked.

"I'm not sure it's supposed to be anything," Karen said. "It's abstract, it looks kind of like waves in sand dunes."

"Cool." The delivery men set the work down, leaning it against the reception desk, and gathered up the pieces of the crate. Foggy tipped them, and they left.

Matt squatted down next to the work and continued "looking" at it. After a moment, he stood up and turned toward Karen and Foggy. "I guess we don't have to ask who sent this," he said with a smile.


End file.
